Providence’s Original Beginning

I thought it would be fun to share the original first couple of chapters of Providence. If you’ve read the novel, you’ll quickly recognize how different it is from its roots. Why did I change it? I was told that Melissa, the main character, wasn’t likeable by some very experienced acquisition’s editors. I was still slogging through my grief over my brother’s death, so I probably wasn’t likeable myself. After a couple years and a couple rewrites, it became a different story, because I was a different person. If you’d like to download it, feel free. Just click here.

Chapter One

Melissa

         It never occurs to me to be thankful for the nightly chaos created by three children and a dog, nor the irritation with a husband who’s habitually late for dinner. A phone call would be nice, but Trevor has some kind of disconnect between work and home, as if the two can’t overlap.

Emily balances the casserole dish aloft, eyebrow perked, red hair cascading over the dish. “What do you want me to do with Dad’s dinner?” Dashiell, our bichon pup, sits at her feet, his eyes pleading for a portion. Like he needs the extra calories.

I glare at the clock for the tenth time in as many minutes and back at the cold noodle and cheese concoction that looks about as appealing as Dashiell’s dog food. “He’ll most likely swing by In & Out. Might as well toss it.” I blow out a sigh, along with a disappointed Dashiell, and pick up the last of the utensils from the kitchen table, when I spot Joshua in the family room adeptly channel surfing with the remote. “You finish your homework, Josh?”

The remote still in optimum position. “Don’t have any.”

Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. “What about your mission project? Isn’t it due on Monday?”

“Dad’s going to help me with it this weekend.”

“You have all the research material ready?”

“Yep.”

“Good, then you have plenty of time to help Emily with the dishes.”

He jerks his head around. “Dishes?” he squeaks as if I just asked him to paint his sister’s toenails. I stand in the kitchen staring him down, in no mood to battle over something so inconsequential.

He folds his arms and flops into Trevor’s recliner. “But that’s girl work.”

“Excuse me?” Between the grinding of the garbage disposal and water running in the sink I must’ve misunderstood him.

Raising both hands, one still clasping the remote, he explains. “Guys do the outside work, and girls do the inside work.” No misinterpretation there. He looks so much like Trevor, I don’t know whether to hug him or lecture him.

“I don’t know where you’ve acquired that warped piece of logic, but when I see you outside pushing a lawnmower and pulling weeds, we can have this talk again. Get your little behind in the kitchen and help your sister.” I return to the kitchen and drop the silverware harder than intended into the sink.

“You don’t really think he’s going to help, do you?” Emily guides a plate in the dishwasher and pushes her hair back with a wet hand. Her eleven-year-old superiority is showing. Again.

“Leave those dishes, Em.” I look at Joshua now leaning against the refrigerator, arms still folded. “You, young man, will come over here, rinse all the dishes and put them in the dishwasher.” His nostrils flare as I brush past him on my way upstairs.

“What about Eli?”

I draw in a deep breath. One, two, three, four…

Josh shuffles over to the sink, head down. “Dad never makes me do girls’ work.”

Five, six, seven, eight…I shake my head while Dashiell bounds up the steps ahead of me then waits at the top, wagging his fluffy tail. I ruffle the top of his soft head and walk past him.

Eli sits in the boys’ room propped against the foot of his bed amid the quiet of creative thought and piles of colorful Lego’s, legs crossed. The start of an interesting project is cradled in his little lap.

“What are you making there?” I squat down in front of my seven-year-old and scoop up a handful of blocks, some so small, I need a magnifying glass to see them. The tinkle of plastic on plastic is soothing as I let them slip through my fingers.

He doesn’t look up, engrossed in snapping pieces together, enviable lashes shading his doe eyes. “I’m makin’ my own mission.”

“It’s getting late, buddy.” For a wonderful moment I forget how irritated I am with Trevor. “You can finish after school tomorrow. It’s time for bed.”

“Where’s Dad? I want to show him what I did.”

And then it rushes back. “He’s not home yet. Tomorrow, okay?”

Eli sighs and looks up. “Late again.” He shakes his head and clicks his tongue. I cringe at hearing my own words parroted back at me. Need to learn to reign in my irritation with Trevor. There’s only room for one nagging wife in this family.

“That’s because Daddy’s a hard worker.”

“I know.” Eli places his “mission” on the floor. We both stand up, and he tiptoes his way across his construction site.

Bending down, I plant a kiss on his soft hair, breathing in the scent of sweaty boy. It’s almost a shame to wash it away.

# # #

I check the clock, 10:05, and punch in Trevor’s cell number—again. But when his voicemail kicks in, I punch the end button.

“You don’t even have your cell phone on, Trev?” I mutter.  What’s the matter with him? Did he forget he has a family at home? I snatch a throw and flip on the television, fuming over the fact that Sacramento commute traffic can’t be blamed on his being this late. I’ll be thrilled when they finished at that job site and are once again working in Placerville.

I snuggle into Trevor’s recliner while the voices of Frasier and his snooty brother breaks the disquieting silence. Their mouths are moving, and I hear them talking about the opera, but I’m thinking about every night these past two weeks…Later and later. Same ol’ thing…problems at the job site. He promised this morning he’d be home on time.

Dashiell jumps into my blanketed lap, circles three times and plops into his makeshift bed. His silky ears slipping through my fingers eases a sigh from me, and I sink into the back of the recliner, shoulders relaxed. The next thing I know, I’m startled awake by Dashiell’s bark. My heart hammers inside my stomach. Groggy, I stand and squint at the clock. 12:10. His barking is going to wake the kids.

“Dashiell, enough,” I say, tempering my tone for their sake.

About time he got home. I power off the television and head him off at the door. Well, he has some explaining to do. If he thinks he can be out all hours of the night, without bothering to call… “Dashiell, quiet.” My harsh whisper is lost on the dog, now jumping up and down like a kid on a pogo stick in front of the door, nails clicking on the hardwood.

Out of habit, I Flip on the porch light and peer through the glass sidelight expecting to see Trevor’s hangdog expression—his attempt to work me before I can even voice my anger. Instead, I’m slapped with the image of two uniforms.

Police? It takes me three tries to get the deadbolt to turn. A half dozen possibilities sprint through my mind before I even have the door open. Car trouble? Bar fight? Arrested? Accident?

“Mrs. Bainbridge?” The officer is lanky with a yellow-gray mustache that more than compensates for his physical slightness. “Are you the wife of Trevor Bainbridge?” His trained eyes flick behind me then back again. My breath leaves my lungs with a whoosh I’m sure they both hear.

Dashiell rubs against my bare ankle, and I glance down long enough to watch him step over the threshold and sniff their shoes. For a brief moment, I consider denying it, then I can’t be touched by whatever bad news they’ve come to impart. It has to be bad news. Who shows up in the middle of the night with good news? Please, Lord, let this be a nightmare. Don’t do this to me.

“Ma’am?” The officer breaks through my prayer. “Are you Mrs. Bainbridge?”

Dread rises up my throat, choking off the ability to speak, so I nod.

“I’m officer Sinclair, and this is officer Hoyt.” He motions to a clean-shaven counterpart who looks too young to be a cop. “Is there anyone else here with you?”

“My…” a lump high jacks my next word and I swallow. Breathe, just breathe. Dashiell backs into my shin and whines, as if he knows. “My children,” I manage. Swallow. Breathe.

He asks, “Is there someone you can call to—”

“Why?” I hear the panic in my voice but can’t temper it. “Just say it. Please.” Tears I’m not aware have formed spill over and trickle down my cheeks. I bat at them, darting my focus from one officer to the other, waiting for the words I know will forever change my life.

The older one clears his throat and shifts to his other foot. He shoots a glance to his black boots then looks me straight in my watery eyes. “Mrs. Bainbridge, we’re sorry to inform you that the body of your husband was found this evening at a construction site in Sacramento. Apparently, he fell from…well, from what will be the roof of the building.”

I clap a hand to my mouth to hold in the scream and shake my head. No, no, no. You’re wrong. It’s a mistake. If Trevor fell…Duncan would have come. Or a crew member, or, uh…they wouldn’t abandon him…us…like this.

“Ma’am?” The clean-shaven one reaches out to steady me.

“Is there someone you can call to come be with you?” asks Sinclair, steady and focused.

I push my hands through my hair and turn, searching for an escape route. “I…I don’t know.” My mind is a blank, no matter how hard I try to form a coherent thought. Who to call? Karyn? No, no, can’t call Karyn. I can’t burden her with this yet. They could be mistaken. They have to be mistaken. Pastor Kent? Ryan? Is he in town this week?

“Mrs. Bainbridge?” Officer Hoyt takes hold of my elbow and leads me into the living room. “Here, why don’t you sit? I’ll get you some water.” And he disappears into the kitchen.

“I have some questions for you,” says Sinclair, “but I think you should let us call someone first.”

Through a fog I hear myself answer, but it seems someone else is speaking in my place. “My brother, Ryan. If he’s in town. He travels a lot. Business. I can’t keep track. But if he’s here he’ll come.”

“Where can I find his number?”

I rattle it off as Sinclair punches in the phone number on his cell then steps out of my immediate space.

I’m floating above the scene, no longer present, watching everything from a distance. Is this what it’s like when someone dies and leaves their body, this ability to be in the room, but no longer affected? Then I see a young man’s hand holding out a glass. “Thank you,” I say. The water trembles as I lift it to my mouth. The glass clinks against my teeth.

In his other hand, Officer Hoyt holds out the throw I’d had earlier and motions it to me. “Would you…?”

“Yes, please. Thank you.” I take it from him, wad it up and stuff it into my stomach. The two of them stand there. We’re all waiting for Ryan. It seems so surreal. Am I dreaming?

I rub my eyes and my hand comes away wet. I lick my lips and taste salt. “I need a tissue.” Officer Hoyt leaves momentarily and returns with a box of tissues. I pluck two out, wipe my eyes and take a deep breath in an attempt to keep the panic at bay. “When Trevor didn’t…” Fresh tears all up. “He was working late, I thought. He’s been doing that a lot lately.”

Officer Sinclair asks, “Where did he work?”

“Phelps Construction. They started a renovation project in Sacramento a couple weeks ago. Maybe…” I hear Officer Hoyt scribbling on his pad, forget what I was going to say and shake my head. “Why didn’t Duncan come?”

“Excuse me?”

“If there was an accident, Duncan would have let me know.”

“Duncan?”

I nod. “Trevor’s boss. Duncan Phelps. Wasn’t he there?”

“I don’t believe so.”

Dashiell’s bark announces someone’s arrival and I hold my breath, my eyes glued to the entrance hall. Please let it be Trevor. But Ryan’s tall frame appears and seeing my big brother—eyes filled with concern—cracks the loose hold I have on composure. I rush to him and collapse into his open arms. He holds me tightly, anchoring me to the present.

“Shh, Lissa. It’s going to be okay. Everything will to be okay.” He kisses the top of my head.

“They said Trevor’s dead, Ry.”

“I know, honey.” He sits us down on the love seat.

“I’m Officer Sinclair and this is my partner, Officer Hoyt. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Where was Trevor’s body found?”

I shiver, and Ryan’s arm tightens around my shoulders.

“A renovation site in downtown Sacramento. Security guard found him.”

“I told him that he started a new project down there a couple weeks ago,” I say.

“It appears he fell from the top of the building,” Officer Sinclair says. “About six stories up. Not sure why no one else was around. Your sister said that…” He looks at his notes. “Duncan Phelps is the owner.”

“Trevor’s the foreman,” I sniffle and swipe the wadded tissues at my nose. “He sometimes stays after the others leave.”

Officer Hoyt clears his throat. “That would make sense then.”

Sinclair asks several more questions, most of which Ryan answers.

“We need someone to identify the body.”

A spark of hope ignites. “You mean you’re not sure it’s Trevor?”

“Slim chance of that, Mrs. Bainbridge. We have his identification. But it’s required nonetheless.”

“I’ll go down in the morning.” Ryan rubs my hands between his.

“No.” I look up at Ryan. “I need to be sure. I can’t…” Emotion chokes off my words and I swallow it down. “I can’t tell the children until I’m sure.”

Chapter Two

Melissa

A fat raindrop plops on the windshield, and I focus on it like a lifeline, the last link to my sanity. Surreal scenes of the morgue invade every technique I implement to forget. The cold sterility. The smell of death, either real or imagined. Trevor’s frozen, broken features. The pasty-white color of his skin. Lids shut. I will never again look into the sea-green eyes of my husband.

Ryan and I sit in the car, parked outside the county morgue, he behind the steering wheel, me in the passenger seat. Steam veils the windows, yet Ryan makes no move to start the engine. Fine with me. Nowhere I want to be, anyway.

He touches my arm, tentative, as if afraid I might disintegrate. I don’t know why, but a cartoon Eli was watching last week pops into my head, where the villain sprayed this freezing agent on some innocent bystander. The poor guy then cracked into a million pieces and fell to the floor, a pile of dust. That would be preferable right now. Much easier than telling the kids their father is dead. Much easier than living life without the only man I’ve ever loved.

“Lissa?”

“How…” My voice, thick with despair, comes out in a croak. I clear my throat, close my eyes, and feel the burn of tears track my cheeks. “How can I tell the kids?”

“I’ll be with you.”

“And Trevor’s parents?”

“I’ll call Karyn. She’ll tell them.”

“I don’t think I can do this.” The words tumble out in a whisper, but the panic inside me is anything but quiet. It’s a living entity prepared to destroy me.

“I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head slightly. “I mean I don’t think I can do this.”

“What?”

“Live.”

Ryan takes hold of my shoulders and turns me toward him. “You can do this. You hear me, Melissa?”

I try to pull away.

“Look at me.” I hear the same panic in his voice that’s invaded my being. “I said look at me,” he shouts and shakes me hard enough to rattle my teeth.

My breath catches and I open tear-filled eyes to meet his.

“You have three amazing kids depending on you now. You don’t have the luxury of giving in or giving up.” Tears brim his reddened eyes, threatening to spill over, and it’s his pain and fear that give me the impetus needed to straighten my shoulders and soldier on, as my dad would say.

I draw back with a deep breath, my nose and eyes dripping and a cold deep in my bones, I wonder if I’ll ever be warm again. Ryan plops a mangled Kleenex box onto my lap. He plucks one for himself, wipes his eyes and blows his nose with a honk that shatters the silence.

“I’m not going to pretend to understand what you’re going through,” he says with a gravelly voice. “And I’m not going to bore you with useless platitudes. It’s going to be hard, honey. It’s going to be damned hard. But if I ever hear you threaten to give up again, I’ll take you out myself.”

For reasons I can’t name, his words strike me as funny, and a chuckle escapes, then another. His look of shock only adds to my impromptu humor, and uncontrollable laughter takes over. I laugh until my stomach hurts, until I can’t catch my breath, and when his guffaws join mine, I laugh harder.

“Why are we laughing?”

“I don’t know.” Then like a switch, the laughter turns off and tears begin again. He pulls me close while I sob in his arms. Time ceases to matter. When the tears are finally spent, I become aware my face is wet and hot, and Ryan’s soft cotton shirt is damp under my cheek. His heartbeat reverberates beneath my ear while his hand slowly strokes my hair. Raindrops hit the car with an almost comforting patter.

“I may not understand what you’re dealing with right now, Lissa. But Dad will.” The gentle words touch on the deep loss of the 13-year-old heart that forever lives within me. The same loss Ryan suffered at sixteen when our mom died. “And we can certainly identify with Em, Josh and Eli.”

With a deep breath, I push away from Ryan and settle back into the passenger seat. The windshield is blurred by the rain with rivulets that connect with one another. Skinny waterways running together to form a cascading river. “Maybe. But we had Dad.” Weariness tugs at me like a drug.

“And they have you.” I can feel Ryan’s eyes on me, but mine remain straight ahead. “And me.”

No longer able to fight exhaustion, I close my eyes and fold my arms. “Can we turn the car on, maybe crank up the heat?” My head is pounding. My eyes are swollen. I can’t breath through my nose. And I’m chilled to the bone.

Ryan starts the engine. “Give it a few minutes to warm up, then I’ll crank the heat.”

I sigh and rub my forehead. “I need to call Dad. You need to call Karyn. The kids get out at two and three.” I reach into my purse, fish out my phone and push the power button. The welcome tune trills, then another announcing I have at least one message. I listen, as every good mother is programmed to do.

“That gives us about three hours to get it together.” Ryan bends forward, fiddles with a couple knobs and heat pours out the vents.

“Em’s school called. She’s sick. When they couldn’t get a hold of me, they called Karyn. Looks like you won’t have to call her after all.”

# # #

Em dozes on the couch, covered by a throw, while Karyn nestles in Trevor’s chair, flipping through a magazine. Her eyes meet mine but her welcoming smile wavers instantly

“What’s wrong, Lissa?” She stands and turns to Ryan. “Did something happen?”

“Mom?” A groggy Em sits up, pushing the throw off her. “Uncle Ry?”

In two long strides, Ryan is beside Emily, his arm around her shoulders. “We have some…” Ryan’s throat works for a moment; his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “We have some difficult news.”

“Sit, Karyn.” I guide her with a hand to her arm. I sit on the other side of Emily and search for the words, knowing once said, they will take on a life of their own.

“Where’s Dad?” Emily tenses up, eyes welling. “Did you and Dad have a fight? Are you getting a divorce?”

I shake my head and realize this is the worst Emily can imagine. “No, sweetheart. Your dad had an accident last night at work.”

“Accident?” Karyn pops back up and wraps her arms around herself. “What happened? How bad is it?”

I focus on Emily’s hand, clenched against her thigh, and place mine over it. “He’s…” How in the world do I say it? He’s gone.” I swallow back the bile that rises in my throat at the starkness of the words.

“Gone?” Emily flies to her feet, hugging herself. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

“Em, he’s dead,” Ryan says in a low voice.

Emily whips her focus and pins Ryan with a look. Karyn drops back into the chair, arms still folded, face ashen.

“You’re lying. You’re both lying.” I know she’s about to rush off, so I grab her arm with both hands before she can escape. “It’s not true.” She sucks air into her lungs and lets it out in the wail of a wounded animal, dropping onto my lap. I wrap my arms around her shaking body, my own tears spilling into her hair, my heart breaking with hers.

Duncan

Morning drizzle turns into an afternoon downpour by the time Duncan parks the work truck at his office. He sits with the ignition off, listening to the hammering on the cab roof. Not much is visible through the windshield, but even so, it takes only a moment to know Christi’s car’s not there. This is out of character even for her.

Well, the weather doesn’t sound like it’s gonna let up, so he snatches the tubes of blueprints and his day planner, covers it with his already damp jacket, kicks the door open and runs for it. But before he can cross the twenty yards of gravel, he’s drenched. He stomps through the unlocked door and shakes off the worst of it. He hates it when Christi’s not there. The office is freezing, no fresh coffee smells, and it’s dark—dark enough to see the message light blinking on the answering machine. Frustration builds and he swears he’s going to fire her. How many times has he made that threat? Flakey receptionist,” he mutters. But keeping her on is easier than training a new one.

Eying the thermostat, he considers clicking on the heat, but decides it’d make more sense to work at the house—warmer, anyway. He plops his armload onto Christi’s desk and reaches for a message pad and pen. Before he can punch the recorder, he hears two raps on the office door as it’s pushed open.

“Criminy! It’s a blasted hurricane out there. Been trying to get a hold of you for the last two hours.” Kent throws him a scowl and shakes his head like a golden retriever, water flinging from his thinning blond hair.

“Hey, keep it outside, will you?”

“Called your cell phone, too. Don’t you check your messages?”

“Just about to do that before you barged in here.” With Kent’s unexpected appearance, a knot grows in Duncan’s gut. He jams his hands in his front pockets and waits for Kent to get to the point.

“Ryan Montgomery called early this afternoon.” Kent rubs his eyes with a thumb and forefinger and keeps them there. “Trevor’s dead.”

Duncan slides half his rump onto the desk for something to hold him up. “What?”

“Yeah. Seems he fell off the roof of that building your crew was working on.”

“Doesn’t make sense. It’s a one-story, for crying out loud. Even if Trev was there—”

“Not the ranch house. That complex on hold, downtown Sac.” He nods like he sees the light bulb go on inside Duncan’s head.

“What the heck was he doing down there?”

He shrugs, shakes his head, and turns for the door. “Look, I gotta go. I told Ryan I’d stop by Melissa’s. See what I can do. You Okay?”

“Yeah,” Duncan says, but he’s not sure.

Kent pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “I hate this part of my job. Much rather be officiating at a wedding than a funeral.”

Duncan nods, his eyes burning with the effort it takes to hold back emotion.

“She doesn’t know.”

Duncan’s head shoots up and their eyes lock.

“Melissa doesn’t know.”

Swallowing, he nods again.

Kent leaves, the door slamming behind him, and it’s like someone lifted the lid to Duncan’s tear tank. Guilt rips at him. Trev and he had their differences, but they’d been close. The thought of never seeing him again…

He gets up and moves to the other side of the desk, feeling like he’d suddenly aged forty years in the last five minutes. He plops into Christi’s chair, sees the light on the message machine blinking and latches onto the distraction.

“You have five messages,” the automated voice informs him. “First message, Thursday, ten-forty a.m.” There’s a pause, and then a female voice comes on the line, distraught, unrecognizable. “I know it’s late. I…I should of called earlier. You’re gone, huh? Um…” He hears a sniffle, and it hits him—it’s Christi.

“I called to tell you I can’t work for you anymore. Um…I know it’s going to leave you in a bind, but, I just can’t.” Sobs and sniffles are all he hears, and he knows she knows Trevor’s dead.

He fast forwards through the next three work-related ones. But the last message is from Kent, asking him to return his call. He hears the irritation in his voice, but more than that, he hears despair.